Six Rounds
by neverassume
Summary: There were six chances for her to die- to lose her life. Nobody got a second chance. What does she have to lose?


Love.

It's nothing but a word; a meaningless phrase used to lower your guard, so people can destroy you. Destroy everything you ever made for yourself, destroy everything you ever lived for, so then there's nothing. Those of you who have had the pleasure in having love, watch your back. Because when you least expect it, your so called 'love' will crush you -shatter you- and you'll be hopeless. Just like me.

He left me for _her_- the girl I once called my sister. The girl I had considered my own flesh and blood. Four years of dating -four years of happiness- flushed down the drain, all because she came along. Every time he told me he loved me, that we'd grow old together and be by each others sides till the end, he lied. Did he have this all planned out from the start- to have me fall irrevocably in love with him, just so he could drop me?

And that's not even the worst part. As my cousin, my _sister_, she should've realized what he was doing was wrong. You would _think_ she would never have wanted to see him again, after all the pain he had put me through. What turned out was quite the opposite- she didn't push him away; welcomed him with open arms, actually. She _knew_ what she was doing to me was beyond torture, yet she was selfish enough to take him for herself and leave me in the gutter.

Whatever deity decided to royally screw my life must have succeeded, because I didn't even get an explanation; no way to know why he would rip my heart out, and walk all over it.

I still can't help but wonder _'What if this never happened?'_. Where would my life be, with Sam still by my side?

Despite everything they put me through -nights spent crying into my pillow, screaming until my throat went raw- the love-addicted fool in me wanted him back; wanted everything to return to normal, and forgive him. My thoughts continually _revolved_ around him. Looking back, the irony of that makes me laugh. I even went so far as to convince myself that it was all a dream; no, a nightmare, and told myself once I wake up, everything will be fine. I'd get my life back, and have my happily ending after all.

It dawned on me that life didn't work that way. Once one thing is screwed, everything falls in line with it.

While the two of them rode off into the sunset and frolicked through meadows, I had no particular reason to live beyond that point. Suicide had been one option, but I chose not to give them the satisfaction of knowing they finally got rid of me, so my life fell into the hands of the drug infested world. I eventually relied on using people to help myself forget about Sam, and everything he had done to me. Another day, another foreign bed, but the pain was still there- no amount of strangers could ever take my mind off him for long.

I rarely stayed at home anymore. My nights were either spent in the smoke riddled, beer soaked bars of Forks, or in a strangers bed. It was hard to tell how many guys I had been with after Sam- I was usually too wasted to remember anything that had happened. They brought me no pleasure- just a way to distract myself, and stop reliving the past. Impure or unclean, call it what you want, I didn't have the will to care anymore. Everything I did was acted upon a whim, merely because I wanted to, or had no reason to decline. Nothing mattered to me anymore; all I wanted was to get rid of the pain, and anything that helped, I immediately took on.

Eventually, the gray cloud over my head turned into the black storm everyone avoided, and I was at the lowest point in my life- rock bottom. Cigarettes turned into illegal drugs, shots turned into pints, and blackjack turned into my newest obsession; Russian roulette.

How my life had turned out so pathetic was far beyond me.

* * *

The room was silent; the only things reminiscent of any activity was the dimming ceiling light, and the sharp, continuous click of a revolver.

What I sought out was danger; anything to get that adrenaline rush I craved. It was like a brand of heroin I couldn't resist- whenever someone offered it, I could never refuse. Nothing could compare to what I felt during it- no one could ever give me a rush quite like this.

Who would've thought that toying with my life would have brought me this much excitement?

The outcome of the game is simple; the winner gets life, and the loser earns death. It could be played in groups, or one on one. The rules stay the same regardless; spin the revolver once, hold the muzzle against your head, pull the trigger, and pray it won't be your last. Cowards could palm the round, but why play if you're going to chicken out?

There are no second chances. Once you spin that revolver, it's a matter of life and death; no turning back. Once you're in, you can't get out.

Most would say the few who have survived countless rounds are lucky. On the contrary, luck plays no part in the game; the same is true for any other lethal activity. The results are purely based on chance- probability may be kind to you, and allow your spin to land short of failure, but no player should ever owe their victories to luck. Luck doesn't exist- everything is based off logical reasoning.

In the back of my mind, there is always the thought that this may be my time- that this is where I finally lose. Surely after enough victories, the probability of a loss would be higher. Watching enough people lose their lives from a single shot should result in any one person to finally earn the same fate, but that's where I come in to defy the odds. To do what I do best.

I am quickly pushed out of my reverie when he turns towards me, his chair swiveling against the cold, concrete floor.

My eyes land on the revolver he caresses with his hands. The dim light reflects off the faded, gray steel, and momentarily shines into my eyes. Unfazed, I shift my gaze upwards to his face, and from what I can see, his mouth is pulled taut into a mischievous grin. He seems confident, but once he leans into the table, the dim light illuminating his face, I chuckle softly to myself. His eyes betray his actions; they're full of worry, nervous of what is to come in mere moments.

"Are you ready?" he purrs, lifting his gaze up to meet mine, eyebrows raised. I notice a double meaning in his question. His voice is calm, husky, though I pay no heed to it. I'm here for the game- not to please some lunatic.

I nod, choosing not to speak; I prefer to leave the illusion of mystery before my opponents death. Simple information is shared, yes, though conversation is avoided. The only thing the two of us have in common is the drive for the game- this lethal game of chance- and how we have both tested fate time after time again. No one has been through struggles I have, and I have no intention of telling them anything more than a meaningless name or age. This particular man is no exception.

His eyebrows fall, seemingly disappointed by my answer. He shuffles his chair forward, moving closer to the edge of the table. As customary, the man is always up first. My eyes never leave the revolver as he spins for the round, aims, and slowly breathes out. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a bead of sweat rolling off his temple. The tension in the air is thick; suffocating, even, in it's depth. It was safe to assume that he had not had much experience with the game.

I laugh darkly. He had no idea what was coming.

He abruptly stops, staring at me as if silently questioning my sanity. I flash him a brilliant smile, the stench of alcohol still on my breath, before waving him off, silently urging him to continue. He swoons, cautiously moving the muzzle back to his right temple.

The seconds tick by, feeling more like hours. My worst pet peeve is when people hesitate- I believe everything is best to get over with as quickly as possible. This boy -now that I realize it, he does look about 18- doesn't seem to agree, as he carefully releases the pressure from his finger on the trigger. As per usual, the newest players are always stricken with fear when it is their turn.

They don't realize that it doesn't get easier the more they play.

It's nothing to be proud of, but I, too, feel the pressure and have hesitated before. What separates us, though, is the fact that I know how to conceal and mask that hesitance- turn it into anger, even, and use it as drive and enthusiasm for the game. The one unspoken rule among every player, young and old, is to never show your emotions. Once your emotions are portrayed, you can forget about earning your opponents respect. Inexperienced players are always easy to weed out.

Recognition among the game is likely the greatest pleasure in playing- maybe even the reason why most people take part. Once you've won the round, the emotional side of your brain urges you to feel remorse for witnessing-no, playing a part of- a death, but the competitive, adrenaline rushed side simply pats itself on the back, and adds the accomplishment to the list.

"I don't have all day," I snap, with blatant venom in my voice. He notices my irritation, and falls short of a nod before his index finger wraps around the trigger once more. He closes his eyes, letting out an inaudible prayer, before pulling the trigger.

Realization dawns on him that he is alive moments later and, with a grin I'd like to wipe off his face, pushes the weapon towards me. Eagerly wrapping my fingers around the cold steel, I lift the gun to inspect it's current state. The ends of the muzzle have slightly rusted, and the steel of the cylinder is scuffed, either from overuse, or the sheer age of the weaponry. A decent enough model to keep myself busy, for the time being.

A light flicks off in my head, and I realize the odds have changed. With the successful attempt of this boy, the chances of myself winning have diminished to 1/5. I scoff; there was absolutely no reason to worry. I had countless wins under my belt, experience etched into my face, while this_ kid_ likely had no more than 15 to be proud of.

Wasting no time, I grip the revolver and raise it. There are no emotions coursing through my body- only the adrenaline that accompanies each round. The sheer excitement of the challenge pushes me to quickly end this round. I can already see myself winning- can practically feel the rush of excitement knowing I've beat the system once more. Knowing that I'm still left unbeaten.

Without so much as a breath, I press the muzzle to my right temple, having no second thoughts.

It was time for fate to decide my future.


End file.
